


A heartbreaking work of staggering genius.

by l0vebuzz



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Best Friends, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27478606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l0vebuzz/pseuds/l0vebuzz
Summary: ---SUMMARY---Cas likes Dean but he doesn't think Dean likes him back. They've been best friends for years. They’re at their secret spot, a place to escape the troubles of their daily lives.Castiel gets lost in his memories with Dean, his fears, and his desires.CW: Mentions of domestic abuse and parental neglect.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 16





	A heartbreaking work of staggering genius.

**Author's Note:**

> I needed a space where to fantasize about sweet Deancas being *smol*, away from the raw pain of canon.  
> Leave a kudos or comment if you like <3 It will make my day.

Dean gets me a twelve-pack, after that he's standing on a bench declaring that he is bigger than Jesus, pulling my arm and asking that I go see things from his perspective.

He says a little change wouldn't hurt. The thing is, though, I have never felt comfortable doing what Dean does. Even though we are really good friends, we are very different. He's popular, and I have an obsession with bees. Go figure. People are always asking how do I know Dean, assuming they're even speaking to me. When they're speaking to me, then you know it is most likely about Dean Winchester.

I get on the bench. There are three beers left and I didn’t even have one. Even from down there, I could smell his beer breath, but I take some pity on him. I don't like getting drunk. Most of what it does is it makes you feel a bit wobbly and confuses you about what is appropriate doing. He seems to like it very much, though. He drinks like a lot, a lot.

"Isn't this heaven?" I get on the bench, he's staring at me, glossy eyes from the alcohol and stupid little smile on his face. 

"I wouldn't know. I am no angel." He loses his balance, and I catch him by his overused green jacket before I can hear his skull crack against the concrete. He's laughing, bending on his stomach. 

"You-" Two single tears are now running down his vermilion tinted cheeks. "Cas- You made a joke."

"Yes. Because I'm named after an angel, I get it." 

So Dean and I are standing on the bench, with my hand that's starting to cramp up from trying to hold him, subtly, from the jacket. Subtly, because he's annoying like that. 'I can do this myself' he'll say, ' I won't fall, I'm no baby." he'll say.

There are no clouds tonight. The wind is cold, but we're used to it. There's always wind here. I feel like a pilot soaring through the sky. I do the job I am paid to do, make sure Dean doesn't crash. Dean being the plane in this scenario. Well, maybe the drunkness is rubbing off on me because that thought was really strange.

Cold, silvery, distant. The moon is a woman that doesn't like making conversation much. I imagine its reflection traveling inside one of the buildings, insinuating itself through a window. Running up and down on the walls at the speed of his breath. He's panting, recovering from the sudden and hysterical laughter outburst.

Pull the jacket further back, now let him roam a bit more, it's like a leash. I think to myself with a grin. I get distracted for a moment. 

And before I can understand it, he's slipping over the edge. The sudden loss of balance forces him to lunge forward. I look over, his arms stretched in front of him like he's venturing in the darkness. Somewhere, in one of the buildings that face onto this little forgotten corner, someone is looking down on us. Probably having a laugh.

We're down to our last half hour. A window from the building lights up. My father won't be here in ten minutes like he said. He never does. That's how I know we still have half an hour. The last bus ride is in half an hour.

Ask me how many times I have waited in front of school, patiently. Waited until the moment everyone was gone, and then started wondering if he'd changed his mind. Ask me why I never took the bus straight away after getting out, like I did every other day. My father only offered to come to get me every once in a while, when he felt guiltier than usual. And then, probably at some point during the morning his guilt would just fade, so he'd forget about me once again.

Seven minutes. That's how much we'd have by now if my father was actually coming. Dean finally makes it back on top of the bench. And that's when I realise I should have used it as an excuse he's down there to get down myself.

Too late. Too bad. He tries to reach for a beer, I grab him from his jacket again. Tsk. Scared from stumbling again he gives up, momentarily. The sudden lack of an opposing force, before I can tell, gives life to a ripple effect. I unknowingly pull him towards me. His drunk body lets it happen almost eagerly.

After that, Dean's big arms are closed around me, as he's pushed in my direction. He squeezes me. Dean's sandy blonde hair, my nose lost within it. His big shoulders remind me of being five years old and still living in the delusion that my father is my hero.

When this happens, It's weird to remember that this place is just another point in the world. Dean, I, and a twelve pack. Which has prematurely become a three pack.

With Dean's big arms wrapped around me, his hand's palm now against my head, I am a thousand miles away. Here. There. Everywhere.

He fully forgets about the beer, which is good. From his shoulder, I look up at the window once again.

"We are free to be." He says. "You and Me."

I wonder what it means. I would find it ambiguous if it wasn't that he's with Lisa Braeden. That's how I met her: He's going out with her. Long matte black hair, huge dark eyes the way Tim Burton characters have them, olive skin, and a chemistry book always with her.

The worst part about it is I cannot look into his eyes when she's there in front of me. Afraid I would give it away, I guess. Those emerald green eyes. This corner is the only place I am sure she'll never infiltrate. It's our spot.

We have a triangle thing going on. I want Dean like Lisa does. And Dean doesn't want anyone the way we want him. We never talk about labels, but I know he's never felt any sort of way about anyone. He likes boning them, the girls. But he doesn't want Lisa. And Lisa doesn't want me around because she thinks that's why Dean doesn't want her. 

I emerge from the embrace. Now able to breathe fully, without hair in the way and I say "What do you mean?"

I remember all about Dean's life. The way his face had gotten bruised mysteriously on several occasions, and how it will probably happen again. How he's hesitant to say anything about it. Every time I'd let it go and then ask if he's okay. And then one day he crumbled to my feet. It was one of the frequent drunk nights. But he was drunker than usual. 

He said he was forced to see the school counselor. Round glasses, short wavy hair, horrible miniature tea sets collections exposed compulsively like prizes. She told him to trust her and say the truth. So he did. She said he had depression. That he had never worked through his mother's death healthily. That it's okay to feel emotion.

And when he'd gone back home, he knew their conversation hadn't been so private. His father sat, manspreading. Waiting at the kitchen table. His voice initially calm, asking what he said to 'the shrink'.

"If you want to see real pain just go to a palliative care unit," His father said after Dean had tried to explain, stumbling on his words. "Or I can show you right here."

He looks at me, after a pause that is far too long. I scroll my head, I come back to present Dean.

"What can you say, I mean?" He says as he shrugs. A timid smile. I look at those eyes. Their stare is so deep, and yet a child's stare.

I imagine his pain as a giant ball of light, floating in front of his chest. In my vision, his chest is bare. It's like one of those guided meditations. I wish I could pull the pain out of him. The glowing circle becomes a ball of yarn. I can reach one of its extremes and grab it like I do with the jacket. It's all tangled. Pure chaos. It'd definitely take some time but I hope I can undo the knots. 

"It means what it means." He says.

I had never liked hugs. Then there was Dean. And even across the room, his eyes had something no one else did. An honesty to them. Even in his occasional lies. I had never hugged anyone except my mother, and then there was Dean.

He was telling me about Chevrolet Impalas. And how the ‘67 one was redesigned and had new facelifts. How even the interiors were renovated with the most expensive materials. This is all I remember because I was gasping for hair. Shaking. He just talked because his voice was soothing to me. And it didn't really matter what he was talking about, I couldn't really tell that much.

He was closing in around me with his arms, his head folded down to cover me. I hadn't had my growth spurt yet. I was lost inside his embrace. Dark and silent. His shirt getting wet from my tears. And from that moment, that's when I started wondering why Dean Winchester could only care for others but not himself.

"What do you think it means, Cas?" I am back, I am here and I can only think of a book by Dave Eggers. I read it some time ago. How it reminded me of his life. Dean's parents aren't both dead, but Dean looks after Sam just like Eggers does with Toph. Eggers would kill someone for Toph, and so would Dean. And he's staring at me with those longing green eyes. Lips slightly parted. Uncertain. He looks so naive.

"I think, you're a heartbreaking work of staggering genius, Dean Winchester." His head turns sideways, his eyes narrowed in confusion. 

Those eyes are closer than expected now. Alarm, my head's sending off a warning to all the nerve endings in my body. It's fight or flight. But my eyes close like they don't know it.

His nose graces the tip of mine. It could be the wind. Soft, smooth, his lips press against mine. A subtle pop. I never thought kissing would feel like this. It's so normal like I've never done anything else in my life. Yet, so intimate.

I'm not sure it's actually happening, but if it is a hallucination I'll take it.

I am here. I am far. Far, far away. I am in my cave. I am in my mind palace. I am everywhere.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3
> 
> As Cas implictly tells the reader in the story, the title "A heartbreaking work of staggering genius" is taken by the book written by Dave Eggers, which I totally recommend to anyone.


End file.
